


Handprint on the Driver's Side

by tebtosca



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drunk Sex, F/M, Light Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 07:33:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tebtosca/pseuds/tebtosca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jo gets more than she expected when she finds Sam on the side of the road. Set post-3.16.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Handprint on the Driver's Side

**Author's Note:**

> Written for gold-bluepoint for the springfling challenge for a Jo-centric fic with the prompt "been trying hard not to get into trouble".

“You could come with me,” she says. Her head tilts sideways, blonde hair falling across his shoulder. 

He looks at her and she knows what he’s going to say before the words leave his mouth.

“Yeah, okay,” she says instead.

==

Jo gets wind of some demonic activity while stopping for a beer in a hunter’s bar in Indiana. She normally avoids spots like these, preferring to stay under the radar since she’s been riding solo. She knows her mom hates that she’s out here on her own, but Jo needs the fast and loose to help her breathe.

She overhears the talk while beating a couple of drunk guys in plaid at pool before pocketing their money with a smirk and heading back to her motel for the night. They don’t look too happy about it, but then again, guys like that never do when faced with how effortlessly she one-ups them.

She does some recon work in the next town the following day, talking to a few townspeople and greasing some palms with a fake badge and a pretty smile. She overhears an old man talking about the crossroads at the diner over a cup of coffee and a slice of cherry pie, and figures that it’s worth checking out once it gets dark enough for cover.

She’s not quite prepared for the familiarity of sleek black metal, especially not as it’s lying in a ditch on the side of the road like an abandoned lover.

“Winchesters,” she mumbles, tapping her fingers on her steering wheel. She remembers the last time she saw them; Sam’s fingers not his own yet wrapped tight around her wrist. Dean’s face as he walked out of the bar, whispering promises he never was going to keep.

She doesn’t know whether she wants to see either of them, but like too many times in her life, curiosity wins out.

==

Getting all 6’4” inches of drunk and bleeding Sam Winchester over into the passenger seat turns out to be more than a little exhausting, but Jo grits her teeth, sets her feet, and does the job.

“Sam,” she says, slapping him lightly on the face to try and rouse him. She huffs when he doesn’t respond, but makes sure he’s breathing okay before heading out to assess the scene. She’s got her gun out, breath coming in little bursts as sweat trickles down the side of her jaw. There’s no sign of Dean and that plus an injured Sam can’t mean good things.

Nothing but darkness greets her, and Jo steadies herself before holstering her gun and heading back to try and get the Impala out of the ditch it’s wedged into. She glances over at her own car and makes the split second decision to come back for it later, since the motel isn’t but a few miles away. Sam’s bleeding and even though it twists Jo’s belly up to even consider it, she knows that Dean would want her to help take care of that first.

Her fingers tight around the steering wheel, phantom imprints left by Dean’s fingers beneath them, she heads towards her motel.

If Jo didn’t know any better, she’d swear she hears crying. She glances at Sam, nudged into the corner of the seat, curled up like a child.

Probably just the wind.

==

She pulls into the parking lot and manages to smack him awake enough to fumble to the room and collapse on the bed. He smells like whiskey and sweat and dirt, and now so do her still messy sheets.

He opens his eyes just once, when she tells him that Dean is gonna tan his hide for driving that car of his into a ditch. 

It’s like staring into a fire. Jo hasn’t seen grief like that since she was in pigtails and someone told her mama that daddy wasn’t coming home again.

Jo swallows around the lump in her throat. She wants to ask but doesn’t know if she wants the answer. 

She lets him sleep it off instead.

==

She waits a few hours before heading out on foot to get her own car. She’s carrying her gun, two knives, a bottle of holy water, and a ninja star she steals from the arsenal in the Impala’s trunk. Her mother would probably tie her to the radiator for going out alone, but Jo keeps her head up and her hands on her weapons.

It takes her four hours to get back and part of her is hoping Sam is long gone and she doesn’t have to think about the damn Winchesters and their haunted eyes ever again. They’ve caused enough trouble in their lives, and, contrary to what her mother thinks, Jo is trying to keep _out_ of it.

He’s still there. Jo clenches her fingertips into the wood of the doorframe and exhales.

She’s beyond tired, her whole body screaming at her to take the motel version of a decent hot shower and sleep off the day. But Sam is still curled up in a ball on the bed, and there is still something missing, and dammit, there’s still the tiny tendril of fear every time she looks at his big hands and pictures them closing around her throat.

She doesn’t sleep; she sits and she watches. 

She guards.

==

“It was a fair trade.”

It’s the first thing Sam says when he finally wakes up from his booze-induced slumber. His voice is sandpaper rough like he’s been chewing shards of glass.

“Where’s Dean?” It’s the first thing she can think of to say because Sam is alone and Dean wouldn’t allow that and it all seems so _wrong._

“I just wanted to trade. They could have had me and all they had to do was let Dean go. I didn’t even want any time. Not even a day, not a fucking hour. The crossroads demons are supposed to fucking trade. That’s their _job_ , goddammit.” 

“Sam,” Jo says, louder, firm. He looks up like he just realized she’s in the room, his face slack. “Where is Dean?”

“Dean’s in Hell.” His voice suddenly lacks emotion so completely that it’s like the entirety of his core has leaked from him right alongside the words. 

With shaking hands, she uncaps the emergency bottle of Jim Beam she keeps with her medical supplies and takes a slug.

==

The whole story spills out over the course of the day. Demon deals and resurrections and one frantic year of guilt and regret. Jo had heard through the grapevine that Sam and Dean were getting up to stuff, but she always figured that was par for the course with them. 

She wonders suddenly if her mother knows. If she kept it from her, wondering if Jo would seek out Dean if she knew how little time was left. 

Jo brushes the thought from her mind. Last thing she needs is to covet the dead.

“You’re still scared of me,” Sam says suddenly, the dying light of day brushing over where he slumps against the headboard.

Jo recoils just a bit, shaking her head, but pressing her back a little further against where she’s sitting up against the wall. She sees his eyes dip, and she nods briefly in the interim.

He’s pulling his shirt off and binding his wrist to the bed frame with it before she even realizes what he’s doing. The movement pulls on a gash in his bicep and the blood trickles lazily down the sinewy tan of his arm.

He nods. “I’m scared of me sometimes, too.”

==

Sam’s body is warm, even when he’s shivering.

It’s middle of the night again, and Jo presses the bottle of Jack she found next to the machete in the trunk to her lips. The liquor burns her throat and she coughs once before reaching up and pressing the bottle to Sam’s mouth. He chugs it, eyes squeezed shut, throat working as sweat beads in the dip of it. 

Jo’s lips are swollen from the alcohol as she presses them firmly to Sam’s. He doesn’t move at first, just sits there immobile as she climbs into his lap and slides her free hand into the damp hair at the back of his neck.

Slowly his mouth starts moving, opening ever so slightly to grant her access as she slides her tongue past lips and teeth and tastes the salt of whiskey and drying tears. It tastes both familiar and grotesque, and she flings the bottle at the nightstand to get herself both hands deep into it.

Sam makes a wounded sound, his hands balling into fists as he strains against the bonds holding him back and giving her control. It makes her giddy suddenly, powerful, overwhelmed by the gravity of pain that is radiating off of him and filling her through the mingling of spit and scent. 

She’s got his dick out and in her hands, hard and needy and angry as he bites her mouth. She pulls back from his teeth just enough to spit in her hand and bring it back to where it was, Sam’s terse little groans almost reprimanding her for doing something that would ease the way and take away the shocky hurt of the drag. 

She grinds her pussy into the solid meat of his thigh as she tugs at him, throwing her head back as he drags his teeth further down and bites through cotton to the braless shape of her breast, suckling the material where it shadows her nipple until the patch around it is wet and dark. 

“Fuck, fuck,” he moans into her chest as he comes, jizz coating her hand and his belly where it contracts with the force of it. She stills, head fuzzy and limbs filthy. She reaches up and kisses him softly on the lips. She knows there is too much kindness in it when he flinches.

“You could come with me.” 

His hands are still tied, penance in the pain of it. 

“Yeah, okay.”

==

By the time Jo gets out of the shower, both Sam and the Impala are gone. 

She slumps on the bed, which is still warm and sticky. She picks up her phone and dials a number she’s been avoiding for a few months, just because. She feels foolish for wasting so much time denying that she is loved just to prove a point that she already proved fifty hunts ago. 

She doesn’t _need_ to be alone.

“Hey, Mom. Miss me?”


End file.
